“Barbu makes me sad,” said Buba quietly. “What kind of person is this Stefan, anyway? He tramples on her heart.” She shivered and pressed closer to me. “Will you put your arm around me?” She sighed, but I had already hugged her to me.
“She was a different person than when we knew her,” I said softly.
Despite my shock at Angela Barbulescu’s confessions, I was secretly happy about one thing: the naked woman in the photo under my mattress was not my disappeared teacher.
We heard Dimitru’s even breathing from the red chaise longue, interrupted from time to time by incomprehensible babbling—for Buba a sure sign that her uncle was deep beneath the ocean of dreams from which he would not emerge in the foreseeable future.
December 29, 1948. Alexa acts like nothing happened. She seriously asked me where I wanted to go on New Year’s Eve.
December 31, 1948. He sent me a letter. I burned it unopened.
January 3, 1949. Comes with flowers. He absolutely must speak to me. As if there was anything left to say.
January 5, 1949. S. rings the doorbell for all it’s worth. Never want to see him again.
January 10, 1949. Day after tomorrow moving to a furnished room near the Piata Romana. A job? Money for the rent?
At some point during those days Angela Barbulescu must have received a letter inviting her to come to the Ministry of Education for the assignment of teaching positions for the school year 1949–50. I ought to go, she wrote, but what’s the point? I don’t want to be a teacher anymore. I don’t want to do anything.
What happened next in Angela Barbulescu’s life remained obscure because there were no entries for the following months. To my and Buba’s complete surprise, however, she suddenly wrote a half year later, in July 1949, that she was getting married. Buba cried out when she gathered from the diary that Dr. Stephanescu might become Angela’s husband.
“If she marries him, I’ll cut off my curls.” Buba was trembling and had apparently lost sight of the boundary between past and present. She’d forgotten that we were watching events unfold of many years before.
“Your curls stay on your head,” I commanded.
“And why?”
“Because I like the way they smell.”
“Okay. But she mustn’t marry a man like that—ever!”
The entries on the following pages suggested that something had happened to Stephanescu, an accident in which he was badly injured. First we thought it must have been an automobile accident, but later Angela gave the impression that someone had tried to assassinate Stephanescu during the collectivization campaign in Walachia. The only certainty was that the party functionary had spent a long time in the hospital. And Angela sat at his bedside around the clock. Her past wounds seemed healed, as she wrote repeatedly of false friends that Stefan would now avoid—especially Koka. Stefan’s a new man. He’s talking about marriage, family, children! I can hardly believe it.
“If she marries that man, it will kill her.” Buba sighed again and lowered her eyes. I had already seen Buba throw some kind of invisible switch that allowed her to see with her “third eye,” something I would never make fun of again. I watched my sweetheart. She was crying from closed eyes and humming quietly, the sound light and airy like delicate singing that moved through her from some bright realm. Then she came back.
“Buba, what’s wrong?” I asked in concern and wiped away her tears.
“If she doesn’t marry this man, then she doesn’t have to die, because she’s already dead.”
July 6, 1949. I missed my period—it’s been ten days already.
July 18, 1949. Dr. Bladogan says it’s too early to tell for sure, but the symptoms are clear. I’m going to have a baby!!! Should I wait to tell Stefan? Yes. I want to be completely certain.
July 31, 1949. I’m sure! Dr. Bladogan says I’ll be a mother by April 1 next year. We’re going to be parents! Maybe now I can get Stefan to come to church. It’s not nice to get married at the registry office.
August 1, 1949. Haven’t slept. Stefan didn’t come, although he promised to pick me up. Heinrich called at ten, sent a thousand kisses from Stefan; he had to make an urgent trip to Walachia. Trouble with the farmers again because of relocation. Stefan will be gone for two weeks. But he ought to be taking it easy. Politics is horrible.
August 2, 1949. I’m completely confused. What am I to think? Since Heinrich was here, I’m sure that Stefan is hiding something from me. He’s lying. I had to get out of here yesterday, I felt like I was suffocating in this tiny room. And so hot outside. Then who should I run into in the park? Alexa! I haven’t seen her since I moved out. She throws her arms around me and is all wound up. She talked and talked and talked. Acted like my dearest friend. I think she’d been drinking, although I didn’t smell anything. She had on a new dress and nice leather shoes. She says she’s with Albin now and she thinks the wart on his cheek is really cute, not like before when she couldn’t stand him. Everything is different now. Koka has also calmed down. He married Lenutza, that stupid cow who was so hot for the oysters. Heinrich often comes over from Kronauburg. Koka even loaned him money for a brand-new motorcycle, since he has such a long trip, and he also lets him use the big apartment as a photo studio. Alexa works with him there. I asked Alexa what she knew about cameras. “Are you kidding?” She made fun of me. “I don’t take pictures, I let him take pictures of me,” she said proudly. For a fee. Some men pay a lot of money to see the pictures. “Some pay even more”—she laughed—“so nobody else sees them.”
I’m so stupid!!! Why did I have to blab to Alexa that I’m expecting a baby? Maybe I just wished somebody could share my happiness. But Alexa isn’t the least bit happy for me. I don’t understand her anymore. She used to want a whole house full of children and now she’s so fidgety, so agitated. Her hands can’t keep still. She hardly listens at all, and I also told her that Stefan doesn’t know about the child yet because he’s in Walachia dealing with the troublemakers there. Alexa looks surprised. “In Walachia? Aha. Didn’t know that Stefan had put a bun in your oven. He never said anything about it. Oh, well, accidents happen.” How can Alexa say something like that? How could she tell me that if I want to get rid of it, I should go see Florin—Dr. Pauker. It would all be private, sterile, and no big deal. “Man,” she said, “really had no idea that Stefan planted one in your belly, too . . .” I was startled. What did she mean by “too”??? Alexa bit her lip, said “Take it easy,” and was gone. My head is spinning. I’m screaming. I black out. I only recall that I must have fallen down. What do I do now?
August 16, 1949. Stefan is back, at my door with flowers yesterday. He went to put his arm around me, but I held back. He takes me out to the street and shows me his new car. He saw right away that I wasn’t happy. He asks what’s wrong. I told him about running into Alexa, asked if it was true what she said about other women. My knees were shaking, it was terrible. How can he say such crude things, tell me I can kiss a wedding good-bye, since I’m snooping around behind his back and listening to that cheap slut Alexa. Why is he so nasty? Said I could earn my own rent from now on, spread my legs and let them take pictures, like Alexa. I didn’t dare tell him I was pregnant. How could I say we’re going to have a child? He’s a bad person. He doesn’t want me. I’m afraid of him. “Me, too.” Buba was trembling all over. “I’m cold.” At that moment no embrace in the world could have warmed the girl beside me. Least of all mine, because I was also cold as ice. Outside the tower clock struck noon.
“My God, Pavel, it’s so late. I’ve got to go home. My mother’s sure to be looking for me.”
She gave me a fleeting kiss on the cheek. I replaced Angela’s green notebook between the other books. Buba dashed off. We’d continue reading as soon as we could.
Dimitru stirred on his chaise longue, crawled out from under his blanket, and rubbed his eyes. He stared at me as though returning from some immensely distant world.
“What are you doing
here, Pavel? Do you know if Papa Baptiste has left already? Is he still mad at me?”
“What are you talking about, Dimitru? Father Johannes is dead.”
“But he was just here a second ago.”
“You were dreaming, Dimitru. Try to wake up.”
“But I saw him. Papa Baptiste came through that door. He came toward me shaking a stick. ‘What are you doing, Dimitru?’ he scolded. I was going to ask forgiveness and shake his hand, but zip! And he was gone. Disappeared!”
“No, Dimitru. Johannes Baptiste was murdered. He couldn’t disappear because he wasn’t here.”
“He was here! And he was scolding.”
“Scolding you? What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Dimitru, my arrogant son! Keep faith with the earth! Keep faith with man! Like your father Laszlo! Shall nothing remain of your father’s legacy but dust and bones? Turn around! What did I teach you? Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them. But you, Dimitru Carolea Gabor, you’re satisfied to be by yourself.’ That’s what Baptiste said. He disowned me, Pavel! I’m a prodigal son, disowned for all eternity!”
“But you know the father loved his prodigal son most of all, more than his obedient sons who were so well behaved all the time. That’s what Baptiste always preached.”
“But the prodigal son returned to his father, Pavel. Don’t forget that.”
Chapter Seven
AN INVINCIBLE PAIR, A BROWN CROSS,
AND THE LAST PROCESSION TO THE MONDBERG
I was still cold. Since reading Angela’s diary with Buba, I couldn’t get warm. I took pillows and wool blankets and sought out the warmest place in the house, the bench next to the tiled stove in the tavern. Here I could hold out against the cold. My mother took good care of me. She fried blood sausage with polenta, brewed peppermint tea double sweetened with honey, and stroked my hair, which she hadn’t done for years, since I always reacted so crossly. I lay awake with my eyes open and listlessly watched Grandfather Ilja half dozing behind the counter of the store. A daily calendar hung above his head and proclaimed Wednesday, November 20, 1957. Only fourteen days had gone by since Granddad’s fifty-fifth birthday, but he had aged in those two weeks.
Dimitru stomped in at twilight. He’d come back down to earth. When he called out, “A customer, barkeep, with a full heart and empty pockets,” Grandfather’s eyes opened and his gray face took on some color.
“Sit down,” he told Dimitru. “Nothing’s happened around here for days. I could just as well close the joint.”
“And let your Gypsy friend shiver his behind off out there in the frost? What kind of friend is that?”
Ilja gave a pained laugh. “Zuika or Sylvaner?”
“The honor of my people forces me to say—both.” Granddad took out two glasses and placed the wine and the schnapps on the table. Dimitru didn’t touch the glasses.
“First you order and then you don’t drink. What’s the matter?”
“I mustn’t drink alone anymore. Ilja, you’ve got to keep me company and have a little glass, too,” urged Dimitru, although he knew very well that Grandfather couldn’t drink any alcohol since his childhood fall into the vat of mash.
“Why mustn’t you drink alone? It’s not against the law. You usually booze alone.”
“That’s just it. But no more. I can’t drink alone if I want to toast our dear departed Papa Baptiste. To have him in our midst, there has to be two of us. At least. Otherwise it won’t work.”
“Well, if that’s the way it is, I can’t leave you in the lurch.”
I saw how Grandfather could hardly keep himself from bursting out laughing. Even though Dr. Bogdan from Apoldasch had warned him of the effects of even the smallest amount of spirits, to which his delicate constitution was likely to react with the shakes and memory loss, Grandfather took a glass of Sylvaner and drank. “To our Father Johannes.”
“What’s wrong with your Pavel, anyway? Is he sick?” When Dimitru spied me on the stove bench beneath my down pillows, I closed my eyes and made a couple of snoring noises. That’s how I overheard the conversation of two men as earnest as they were peculiar.
Grandfather must have experienced the speedy effects of the unaccustomed glass of wine as beneficial. His weariness fell from him. His tongue was loosened, and he felt light enough to share the weight of his worries with Dimitru.
“Dimitru, you know I’ve always dealt fairly with everyone as a shopkeeper and tavern owner. But I just don’t know anymore who I can trust in the village and who I can’t.”
The Gypsy didn’t reply, which I took as a sign he was ready to listen.
“Nasty rumors are making the rounds, rumors that worry me. I find myself unable to tell the difference between truth and falsehood. When Pater Johannes was murdered, people in the village thought at first that the Communists and possibly even the Brancusis had blood on their hands. Those brothers are hot-blooded comrades for sure, but such a horrible crime against Pater Johannes—no, no Brancusi could do such a thing. The police have witnesses who confirm that: the brothers weren’t even in the village the night of the murder. They were in Apoldasch taking a class for party cadres. Then there’s this strange business about the body disappearing. No one still has any idea what became of our dead pastor. The Saxons are whispering that the Security Service is guilty of the murder. The Securitate is supposed to have silenced Baptiste forever because he was going to preach against the kolkhoz. Now there’s a completely different story. The rumor is going around that Baptiste’s murder is connected to the teacher Barbulescu. Kora Konstantin claims to have seen Barbulescu sneak into the rectory before she disappeared, a few days before Pater Johannes’s murder. I don’t know whether to believe that blabbermouth Kora. But she swears that Barbulescu went to see the pastor in order to confess mortal sins that she’s been piling up since the very beginning of her dissolute life. That Konstantin woman is spreading it around that Barbu’s vices are so enormous that Johannes Baptiste was not able to grant her the sacrament of absolution, since the measure of her sins exceeded his authority to forgive.”
I flushed under my pillows; I was all ears. Dimitru said, “Tell me more.”
“If what Kora is telling everyone is true, then this is how it went: Pater Johannes listened to Barbulescu’s confession but then refused her absolution. And now Kora’s claiming that a confession without absolution is invalid, and Baptiste was no longer bound to keep it confidential. You know as well as me, Dimitru, that Pater Johannes never betrayed anyone’s confidence. No one had to fear that he would ever say even one word about it.”
“He’d have cut out his own tongue first!”
“But did Barbulescu know that, too? Anyway, Kora claims she knows that Johannes asked Barbu to leave Baia Luna. She says it’s not proper for a slutty person like her to be teaching children. And now both the Konstantin woman and Knaup the sacristan claim that Barbulescu had something to do with the murder of Johannes Baptiste. What exactly it is, they won’t say. But Kora’s trumpeting that it won’t be long before they do.”
Since Dimitru said nothing, I opened my eyes a crack and saw him running his hand through his tangled hair. He took a swallow of zuika, shook himself, spit, and pushed the glass away. “When not even your schnapps tastes good anymore, Ilja, then believe me, things are at a serious pass. Especially when people start listening to madmen.”
Grandfather nodded in agreement. “Then you don’t believe what Kora Konstantin says either?”
“My dear friend Ilja, I’m just verificizing. First of all: Papa Baptiste never sent a repentant soul packing without absolution. Never. Secondly: women always act on pure emotion in principio. They can hate, oh boy can they ever! Just as they can love, and I speak from experience. But a hating woman would never tie a naked old man to a chair, turn a whole room upside down so it looks like a Gypsy’s house, and then cut his throat. And thirdly: what does this Konstantin woman say? What
sins did Barbu supposedly commit, for heaven’s sake?”
“Matricide and killing the fruit of her womb.”
Dimitru was silent. My blood was boiling.
“There is one strange thing,” Dimitru said slowly. “It’s true that Barbulescu was in the rectory. It was on your birthday, when we were sitting in this very room listening to Khrushchev’s Sputnik speech. According to my modest fund of information, she didn’t want to confess to Papa Baptiste but only to borrow the key to the library.”
“The key to the library? From the pastor? But everybody in the village knows that you have the key to the books. Why would she bother old Johannes for it? Why didn’t she come to you? She lives right near you.”
Dimitru didn’t respond immediately. “Maybe I should ask myself the same question sometime. But I know one thing sine dubio. Whatever Miss Barbulescu has on her conscience, it’s absolutely not our good Papa Baptiste.”
The stairs creaked. I recognized the heavy tread of Aunt Antonia. She greeted the two men, and I heard her go to the shelf where the chocolate was kept. She bid them good night, and the stairs groaned again.
“There’s one more thing that’s been knocking around in my head,” Grandfather resumed after this interruption. “Dimitru, do you think Baptiste was telling the truth about the Project of this Korolev guy? Do you really think it’s possible the cosmonauts would go flying into space and then tell Khrushchev if they’ve seen God and Mary?”
“Ilja, my friend! To prevent that very thing is why I’m sitting here! We have to do something. By the breasts of the Blessed Virgin, the Project must be sabotaged as truly as I’m a Gypsy. We’re going to throw a regular monkey wrench into Korolev’s works. I . . . just don’t know how yet.”
“I tell you, if anybody can stop Korolev it’s the Americans.”
The Madonna on the Moon Page 18
